where a distant king devours vines
by Mira-Jade
Summary: The tale as old as time was getting quite old, he reflected wryly. Or: Belle, Rumpelstiltskin, and those missing months between them.
1. Prologue: our stories, once told

"**where a distant king devours vines"**

**Genre**: Fantasy, Romance  
><strong>Rating<strong>: PG-13  
><strong>Time Frame<strong>: 1x12 expansion  
><strong>Characters<strong>: Rumpelstiltskin/Belle, Ensemble Cast

**Summary**: The tale as old as time was getting _quite _old, he reflected wryly. Or: Belle, Rumpelstiltskin, and those missing months between them.

**Notes**: So, I was content watching this marvelous fairy tale mash-up from afar – perfectly content, I tell you. And then the beautiful writers decided to tackle Beauty and the Beast (my childhood's heart and soul) with a brand new twist . . . and I was hooked in a very past-the-point-of-no-return manner. I was drawn in, and yet, I was also left wanting - because a forty-five minute show that had to share its time with the future Storybrooke verse, and that pesky thing called _Valentines Day_ was not nearly enough to fill in all the blanks and answer all of the questions. I wanted _more_.

And so – ask, and the muse shall make sure that you receive! I plotted and planned and typed out my soul, and came up with this. _This_ being all of the missing moments the show did not give us, and then a few more for spice.

That said, I hope you enjoy this fan's humble attempt to add to an already magical tale.

**Disclaimer: **Nothing is mine, but for the words. And, once again, the title is a Pablo Neruda nick. Thank-you, Mr. Neruda, for once again being a beautiful, _beautiful_ man with even more beautiful words.

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><p><strong>"where a distant king devours vines"<br>**by Mira_Jade

_"give me the hand out of your depths  
>sown by your sorrows<em>**_  
><em>**_  
>Throughout the earth, let dead lips congregate,<br>__spin this long night to me  
>as if I rode at anchor here with you.<em>

_And tell me everything, tell chain by chain,_  
><em>and link by link, and step by step;<em>  
><em>sharpen the knives you kept hidden away,<em>  
><em>thrust them into my breast, into my hands,<em>  
><em>like a torrent of sunbursts,<em>  
><em>and leave me cry: hours, days and years,<em>  
><em>blind ages, stellar centuries.<em>

_And give me silence, give me water, hope._  
><em>Give me the struggle, the iron, the volcanoes.<em>  
><em>Let bodies cling like magnets to my body.<em>  
><em>Come quickly to my veins and to my mouth.<em>  
><em>Speak through my speech, and through my blood. "<em>

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><p><strong>Prologue: "our stories, once told"<strong>

True to her word, the good Sheriff returned with his ice cream cone in hand.

Or rather, young Henry Mills was the one who took his flippant request as a true wish - passing the cone between the bars with a small smile and a curious tilt of his head. The child regarded him with too old eyes, filled with a magic that bloomed full and wild even within the shadowed lair that Regina glamored to be both home and castle. When the Sheriff's back was turned – more interesting than the man behind bars was the once-queen, and Emma regarded Regina with cold eyes, meant to cut - he called upon the memory of another time, another place, and made a face at the boy – all sharp teeth flashing, and dark eyes glinting wickedly. Henry's smile grew, amused.

"Thank-you, lad," he inclined his head to the child, and swallowed the _your majesty _that dwelt in the back of his throat; hiding the title next to the quick and clapping voice that would have chortled and mocked as he addressed him so. The last twenty-eight years had given him practice enough with that, at least.

"You're welcome," Henry chirped. "I didn't know what flavor to get you, so I hope that this is okay. It's my mom's favorite." At the simple earnestness in Henry's words, Gold couldn't help the grin that pulled at the corner of his mouth. It didn't turn and fill (a half moon on an imp's face), but it did pull. What a smart little prince the child was, gathering all of his dragons into one cave in his mind.

"Madame Mayor has a taste for superman ice-cream?" he asked, amused as he looked down at the multicolored cone in his hands.

The child's eyes glinted wickedly. "Nope. Not a bit," he said as if divulging a great secret, and Gold snorted. Of course.

And just like that, the mayor's witch-queen eyes were on them; slithering and dangerous. For a moment, Gold half expected her to use a forked tongue to taste the air. Instead, she only smoothed red tipped hands over her suit, choking away imagined wrinkled, her gaze sharp upon all in the room. In a voice that commanded, she said, "Henry, we're leaving."

After gleaning a last quirked grin from the child, Gold inclined his head in the closest thing he could manage to a bow in this world. Facades now vanished between Regina and him, he would have curtsied if it were not for his bad knee and the bars between them. Instead, he flashed his teeth once – knowing that she remembered them sharp and fanged. She sneered in return - a familiar enough look in either life, and he watched her until the town beyond swallowed both she and the child. He shook his head, and placed the chipped cup in his hand down on the cot beside him. Better there so that he didn't drip melted ice-cream onto the china, he thought. The dessert was all sugar – bubble gum and sweet berry and cotton candy all at once. A child's dessert with a hero's colors through and through.

Emma Swan watched the darker woman and her son even after they were gone – moving to stand by the window and peer through the blinds as the pair walked down the street. Only when they were out of sight, he imagined, did she finally turn his way. She was biting her lip, her dark eyes downcast, pulled down by the thoughts on her mind.

A parent absent the pitter-patter of little feet at their side was something he was not unfamiliar with. In that moment, though, he cared not for the weight of the look upon her. "I never took you as a fan of superman ice-cream," he commented idly into the air, drawing her gaze. She visibly squared her shoulders, made her mouth a severe line – like the string on an archer's bow.

She shrugged. "I always thought it smarter to never make assumptions. It keeps life's surprises at a minimum." She moved away from the window to sit back down at her desk – leaning back in the squeaky chair that the woodsman had always hated, and propping her boots up on a pile of folders with handwriting that looked suspiciously like the mayor's. She tapped her fingers idly on the holstered weapon at her hip as if it were both sword and scabbard to her.

He agreed with her, but did not say so. The cone was melting over one side. He licked absently at his finger to clean the mess.

"And besides, I'm actually pretty neutral to the flavor. Henry orders it for me." Her voice was absent of her attention, the words spilling from her mouth without thought as her gaze narrowed on him. She had a sharp look, that one; the shape of it as old as time to him. Her father James had been a brave lad, Gold remembered, but he had also been foolish - all heart and hands, body and soul. Fair Snow had been a smart one – then again, she'd have to have been in order to survive while the Queen burned down everything but the forest itself to have her heart delivered on a silver platter. So, it was brave hands and quick eyes begotten to the fairy tale child before him; moving her to wear leather and a sheriff's badge as if it were a knight's shield and armor. Magic, you see, could never erase everything, no matter how dark the curse.

And, of course, Snow's eyes were weighing in Emma's face when she spied the cup sitting next to him. In that moment, there was magic in her gaze. Idly, he wondered what she told herself that spark deep inside of her was. Perhaps she passed if off as empathy - the quick way she read people, instantly knowing their truths from their lies with only a glance. Always there would be a hunt in her veins, he knew. Dragons never could last without their scales for very long, you see.

"So is that it?" she asked dubiously, understanding without questioning. "That was what was all the fuss was about?" She didn't ask the hows and whys of Regina having her hand in the affair. Nothing went past their good Mayor's mirror gaze, and Emma knew better than most just how sticky the once-queen's hands were.

Her brow was raised. She was expecting a confirmation on his part, then. He ignored her for a moment, biting at the cone with now flat teeth. For the game she had walked into was older than her, and she still had lessons to learn about patience.

"And this was all you lost?" still she pressed.

The ice-cream at the bottom of the cone was a sick mess of color – yellow, red, and blue making a swirl of rotten fruit once mixed. For some things were not meant to blend together. Finally, he answered, "In part," in a hushed sort of voice. As if such a thing could be explained so trivially.

"You beat a man within an inch of his life for . . . a tea cup?" her voice filled with her disdain. Still there was curiosity. Frustration. She knew there was a story going on over her head. Under her nose. "And a chipped one at that?" she scoffed.

He brushed the crumbs from his knees. Felt his eyes narrow. "Within an inch of his life is a wee bit of an exaggeration, Miss Swan," he chose to remark instead of answering her. A pity too. It was nothing more than the flower peddler – the merchant-king with his thorn strewn hands – deserved. In another time, he had been so good at devouring vines, you see, and for a moment it had felt right to consume another again.

Emma snorted. "I interrupted, else it wouldn't have been an exaggeration."

He didn't argue. Instead he smiled mockingly, and picked up the cup once again. At one time, if he would have pressed hard enough, the jagged edges would have drawn blood. Over time, (a hundred such caresses, still counting), the chip had lost its teeth. Now, it was just a dulled edge. An old hurt, still fresh.

And she then asked, "Was it hers?" in a voice that was just a bit too knowing for his taste. He was hard pressed to hear whether it was James or Snow in her tone then. Both had had such a kindness spun into their very bones - sugar rotting their hearts, if you would. And look where loving had gotten them. Look what had happened when they stood against the dark.

His face told a tale before he could school it blank and cold; she read the whole of it anyway. "Oh, don't give me that look, Mr. Gold," she said. "If I didn't already hear it from your own mouth, I would have guessed - only one thing can motivate a guy like that."

If only she knew, he thought, his grip tight over the handle of the tea cup.

"So," she pressed. "Was it hers?"

He turned the cup in his hands, tracing a fingertip over the rim until his nail scraped against the dip of the chip. Blue eyes, more like ocean and horizon than the weightless sky above, stared at him in his mind's eye; more pain in their depths when she hurt the dinnerware than when he told her she would never see her home and country again. Such a curious creature she had been. Fascinating, and -

He inhaled. "Once upon a time," he said, his voice mocking, "it was." He curved his voice, made the lilt of it like a spell; as if he was striking her rather than showing his own wounds, tender and vacant.

The cadence of her fingers sped, dull on the synthetic casing of her service piece. He heard the ring of steel, even so.

"And now?" ever was the hunter present in her voice.

An exhale. "Not any more."

Not any more.

.

.

The food had not improved in the time she had been there.

Today's main course was a soup with a greyish broth and small chunks of vegetables swimming alongside what she assumed were noodles. She poked at it absently with her spoon, making shapes with the rising and sinking things floating within the liquid; spinning their stories within her mind in absence of anything better to do. For the last four years (she had been asleep before that, for she knew not how long – no one would tell her), she had had little but her own mind, and her own tales, to keep her company. She had no story of her own to entertain herself with (she was here, she was told, for her own safety. The doctors said she was a danger to herself – walking through open windows from high off stories as though she could fly), and so she contented herself with those of others.

She did not even have a name – no name she could remember, at any rate. And so she made up names for herself - trying out syllables and sounds until something right stuck to her tongue. To her teeth. (As if a right name could make a fairytale end; a curse render itself asunder). Today she called herself _Theia_, after the Titaness - the mother of the sun, and she of many names. She had just read the tale, the latest of many to pass before her eyes. There was nothing much to do in her tiny little cell but read, and so read she did, and read she did long. Her last book was a book of epic poems - for, oddly enough, where she could not tell her own name, she could read Latin; could translate its dips and turns, and hold the dead tongue like one living on her lips. And so she read the far off language aloud, liking the way the syllables bounced off of the four walls of her cell – a sacrifice of lips to the moonlight spilling in from her little window far above.

(And there memory flared like a dream: a memory of spells on scrolls, correcting the grammar of a man wearing dragon scales next to her. The memory of laughter in her ears - tinkling and pleased and yet still _sharp _as arrows upon a whet stone.)

If the food had done nothing to improve in the time she had been there, then the company most certainly had done nothing more than decline.

As always, there was the nurse who stood guard at her little desk right past her door – a hard and imperious woman whom Theia called _Gorgon _in her mind – for as her own name was a mystery, so were the titles of others around her. It was funner to invent names, at any rate, scribbling their tales over blank paper until there was a book to be held in her mind - words to fill in the missing pieces of her until the letters caught and stuck on each other with their stiff backs and curving lines.

Were her thoughts mad? She was told they were so, how ever much the dancing little memory in her mind chortled and clapped and stared at the ups and downs of her thoughts like she was something he wished to devour. Theia shook her head, wondering if that too was the madness in her, or the odd thoughts the pills sometimes pulled from her mind.

Besides Gorgon, there was only one other woman who came to see her in her small little kingdom. A woman with hair as black as night, and lips as red as the rose (and still not fair, never fair), who came once every two weeks. Theia knew her time well – she kept count of the days in her mind, scratched her nails into her palms and watched the tangles in her hair as it fell before her eyes.

The dark woman moved as if she were a storm over the horizon – all dark clouds and words that fell like lashes until the blackness of her covered everything. Her heels clicked against the linoleum. The grey tones of her blended into the stones of her cell (flat and smeared with chipped paint where she would have them rough and uneven; medieval, mystical), the only mark of color between them the red red gleam of her nails and the red red _red_ slash of her mouth.

Theia called her _Hecate_ in her mind, labeling the woman with a name that burned like a brand. Hecate: witch queen, and the crossroad's very mother. Always, she was the one holding a path open within her questions, but Theia knew not how to answer true. She did not know her right words.

And today was a day Hecate should not have come. Every day for the last four years, Hecate had visited every other Thursday, right before the sun went down. It was Wednesday, Theia knew the marks of the days in her mind.

"You're early," Theia informed the witch queen, wondering which crossroad that that heralded for her.

"I had cause to think of you today," Hecate said, her voice tender. "And your nurse informed me that you finished this last batch of books quicker than normally."

Theia narrowed her eyes, as if by looking at the walls she could see Gorgon beyond. Snake woman and spy both, it would seem.

"I've come to see what you remember today, my dear," her voice was warm, as if she were a mother addressing her child. Still, Theia heard her voice as if it was a snake slithering over glass.

"Nothing new," she whispered, rolling her thin shoulders in a shrug. Her elbows poked at her too big sleeves. She should be eating more, she knew, but Gorgon's culinary skills were as wretched as her conversation; and the thin soup before her never made her full.

A stare, long and slow upon her. Hecate's too dark eyes were more like gaps, rather than mirrors. Wishing wells, Theia decided, empty and false.

"A pity," the other woman whispered, her posture straightening until it was as if she were hung from the stones above her. Her tone turned like a sneer, any warmth gone once she received her answer.

Theia held the stare (_you are not the first beast I have stared down_, a voice whispered within her mind – the her that was her, but not. But the other her offered no memory as proof. No dream as truth.) with one of her own, her hair tangling before her eyes. "Do you have anything new to offer me?" _To deal with, _the same voice whispered; ever willing to barter, if both sides were equal with their wanting, and all.

It had been Hecate who had brought her the Latin books the last time she had visited. Theia wondered if there was something she was to unlock within.

Not answering, Hecate instead knelt down in order to open the brief case she had in her hands. She was careful to not let her knees touch the floor. The dust would sully the dark tones of her. Within the case, there were a dozen new books, and for the first Theia leaned forward, unable to contain her eagerness.

"Ripe for the picking," Hecate's voice slithered.

Unlike Hecate, Theia slipped from her cot and knelt full down on the floor, letting the ground sully her knees. Her heart hammered as she flipped tenderly through the titles, striking against the little chip of porcelain she kept in the pocket of her hospital gown – the one sewn right inside of her chest, over her heart. The little piece of china was the only thing she carried from _before_, and Theia cherished it, though she knew not why. Cherished it as she did her books, and maybe even more so, for if she ever had to choose -

She shook the thought away, and instead read the titles before her. Last month was Latin. This month, she held a half a dozen books in German – books which at first were gibberish to her gaze. But then, slowly, the titles began to translate themselves before her eyes. There were agricultural books before her, oddly enough. Books on gardening full blooms with thorns. A book on economics; how to manage and distribute the wealth of nations. There was a Norse book of webs and weaving – illustrations in ink within, depicting the Queen Frigg ever patient at her loom, the Norn sisters before their ever spinning futures. The leather binding of that one was ancient, written by hand rather than typed. Then there was Shakespeare – a traditional book of sonnets, their rhymes meant to be whispered from lips to ears. Hands to heartbeats. Of his plays she had only _Hamlet_ and _Romeo and Juliet _to read – tales of maidens who drowned and fell asleep in snake venom deaths for love and the loss of it. Theia made a face, and wondered what kind of answer she would have to come up with to get Hecate to bring her a few more of Jane Austen's titles. Rather she even had _Julius Caesar_ or _Macbeth _to read – betrayals and knives flashing rather than silly little girls with silly little dreams.

"I'll leave these to you then," Hecate said, her red lips wry and slashing; a cut made as if taken from a blade.

Theia nodded. Against her chest, the little porcelain chip pressed against her heartbeat. "Thank-you," she said, her voice more formal with the gratitude, rather than truly thankful. She was pleased by the books – for the break from her little world in the tiny cell, a moment's escape from her storybook dreams.

Her dreams . . . At that her gaze flickered, and she hid the thought away. Better to ponder that away from Hecate and her too empty eyes. Who knew what sorts of secrets they would steal and swallow.

"Until next time, my dear," Hecate said warmly, but still the title stung. Like a slap. Like unholy lips profaning a prayer was Hecate addressing her so, but she could not understand why she heard it as so. At her thoughts, Theia looked down at the book in her lap, disturbed, though she knew not why.

When the door to her cell shut, and her silence was once again her own, she picked up that first book. She ran her fingers over the spine of the book, over the cover and the title thick engraved upon it. Her fingers read the story before her eyes did; already such a tale before her even before she turned the first page.

She read until the words on the page before her blurred. She read until comprehension left her, and her mind could take no more of syllable and rhyme. When the lights in her cell flickered – Gorgon beyond her telling her that this day was done - she closed the book, and gently placed it down on top of the others, returning it to its brethren for the night.

When she laid down to sleep – limbs curled in close so as to keep her body heat her own (nothing different than cold dungeon nights and thin straw beds), she reached into that hidden pocket, and withdrew the small piece of porcelain she held within.

Once was, the tiny little sliver was sharp, but many such nights with many such touches had dulled it. She remembered when the edges of it could draw blood, but no more. Now, it was smoothed as if it were a river stone by her hand, imperfection done away with by both current and wave above.

"Goodnight," she whispered to the chipped piece, brushing her chapped lips over the china in a tiny kiss, though there was no one to hear. In her hands, the little piece warmed.

Holding it tight, as if it were a talisman against dark and broken things, she laid herself down to dream.

.

.

In dreams she remembered.

And in dreams he tried to forget.


	2. Part I: known by our very names

**Author's Note: **I wanted to take a moment to thank you lovely, _lovely _people for your feedback. You make writing a pleasure.

And, that said, here we are with chapter one . . .

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><p><strong>Part I: "known by our very names"<strong>

During the summer of her thirteenth year, her lord father allowed her to learn how to ride horseback.

Belle took quickly to the sport (which was half a natural talent, and another half stubborn determination), learning how to find her balance and hold her seat until she was more comfortable in the saddle than she was with a lady's knitting needles in her hands. She excelled at it, absorbing everything her instructors taught her, and making the words her own. Even with the saddle sitting astride (always a proper little lady, they would wish to say) she could jump better than Gaston could – _Gaston_, who was blessed to have his legs free in men's breeches, and both legs swung strong and steady over his mount. A horseman Gaston was not, and that was only one of the many things that she liked to tease him about - calling him _hunter_ and _woodsman _in a tinkling tone that held no weight. Gaston's father would see his son as more, she knew – as some noble knight with his sword at his hip and dragon's blood underneath his fingernails. Belle, however, could not see Gaston prowling anything other than the ballroom floor; could see him hunting nothing more than ways to steal sweets from the multiple platters the servants carried back and forth. At her teasing, Gaston would only ever sniff and turn his nose up to her – retorting about hearth duties and maidenly graces in mumbled breaths when he was truly cross. Sometimes, she wished that he would bite back at her words – strike like a dragon when one too many swords had been struck against his scales.

Even so, Gaston stood by her through her worst ideas, along with her best. There were worse friends she could have been shackled with, she knew – any of the dozens of giggling and dolled ladies her age at court, for example. Not one of them would have helped her in her current endeavor. Lady Ella would have wrinkled her nose at the idea of mud staining her dress, and Lady Heloise would have lamented the fresh scent of horse and straw in the air. Lady Simone would have gone a step further and actually run to tell her mother at the very first syllable of the plan – as she had before. _Traitor_, Belle made a face at the memory.

Instead, Gaston merely stood beside her in their hidden place behind the stables, tapping his ridding crop restlessly against the leather cuff of his boot. His face was creased into a disapproving glower, but he had yet to run off and fib on her - so Belle bore his consternation in stride. "You should not be doing this," was the complaint upon his lips. Again. It was a set of syllables she knew well from his tongue over the years.

Belle narrowed her eyes at him. "You are allowed to go inside now," she said - not cross, but merely matter-of-fact. "Your part in assisting me is done, and I do not need your help any longer."

Gaston snorted. "And let you break your neck with no one near to go for help? Please. I think not."

"I shall not break anything," Belle defended. She caught his look. "Well," she hedged her statement, "not anything too important."

When Gaston's stare continued to dip in disapproval, she propped her hands up on her hips – returning his look with one of her own. Underneath her gloved hands, she could feel the soft stretch of doeskin, rather than satin and silk. The eve before, she had stolen a pair of the stable-boy's breeches from the laundry room – and they fit tan and supple over her still thin frame. She felt free in the men's clothing - as free as thunder felt in a storm cloud, she liked to imagine. Across from her, Gaston's ridding habit was all blue velvet and black lace, with feathers spilling out of his cap like a punctuation point. He looked ill at ease in the wear, nervously pulling at the lace on his sleeves when he had tired of fiddling with his crop.

"You may say so, but does the stallion know that?" Gaston returned her words, gesturing to the mount she had tied by them.

She stuck her nose up in the air. "Of course he does. He and I have an accord."

Gaston snorted. "Stolen sugar cubes and an apple every day for the last week do not make 'an accord'. The beast will throw you as soon as you slip onto his back."

Belle set her mouth stubbornly. "We shall see."

Even though, in the furthest parts of her mind, she did have to admit that her friend had a point. Before them, her father's newest addition to the royal stables stood deceptively calm. _Thanatos _was the name of stallion – a massive and gorgeous animal thrown from one of King Midas' famed golden mares. The stallion stood a good sixteen hands tall – massive in comparison to Belle, who was tiny, even for her age. Even for the size of the stallion, he still managed to be elegant and graceful - with his wide chest heaving in anticipation of running, and his sharp hooves striking the light as he pranced. His neck and muzzle were arrogantly sloped, giving him a haughty demeanor as he pawed impatiently at the ground. From forelegs to the tips of his ears, the stallion was completely black – as black as Nyx and her eternal night. Peering down at her, he had wicked eyes who watched her with more insight than Gaston could ever hope to possess.

Belle herself would never be permitted to ride such an animal – no matter how proficient in the saddle she grew, or how many years of riding she held under her belt. Gaston, on the other hand . . . as a son of the nobility, he had only but to ask, and the stallion was his for the afternoon. He had been the one to take the horse from the groom, and walk him out to the furthest outbuilding where Belle was waiting.

Because, as well and good as Buttercup was, Belle wanted more than her slow old mare to ride. The matron horse excelled at guiding children – both those her own, and those upon her back; but now, Belle wanted someone who could _run_.

And Thanatos looked like he wanted to do nothing more than run – run and run and _run _until he left her and everyone else far behind. In a kindred moment, Belle imagined that she knew how the stallion felt. She placed a hand against the stallion's muzzle, and felt his whiskers as they tickled her skin. His breath was warm and sweet on her palm; as if there was a flame within his mouth, lightening him from inside.

And Belle smiled sharp enough to match.

"Your father will set the lash on you," Gaston tried to warn, one last time.

Belle threw her nose in the air. "As if he would ever raise a hand to me," she proclaimed confidently - hot air and hot words with his face red and thundering, _that_ was and always would be the extent of Lord Maurice's anger with his daughter. Of that, Belle was sure.

Gaston's laugh was mean in return. "Or maybe he will finally have you burned with holy water," he snickered. "Burned until the evil spirit in you who moves you to act so flees for fear of the fire."

At that, she did role her eyes. She wished to wear breeches when riding, and everyone who heard so covered their mouths in astonishment and declared her possessed. Belle narrowed her eyes, the look sharp on her. "He will only ever find out if _you _tell him."

Gaston's stare was defiant. But, hold his silence he would. If anything, Belle had learned that over the years.

"Just try to come back with your head still attached to your body," he pleaded.

"If I must," Belle quipped.

"And it looks like rain," Gaston said next. "Keep an eye on the horizon – the last thing you'd want for him is to turn a foot on a wet path."

"I will be careful," Belle promised, darting a glance to the sky, where the grey clouds had indeed thickened above them. She could feel the moisture in the air; could feel the static of the storm building upon her skin.

So . . . that was it then. Now or never.

With her heart beating against her chest, as if trying to escape, she stepped up onto the hay bales she had arranged for just that moment.

That first step up.

The second.

Holding her breath, she placed her hands on Thanatos' back, leaning her weight against him, but not daring to climb on just yet. The stallion was still beneath her. His ears swiveled back and forth, curious as to the small slip of a thing that was leaning against him.

Belle took a deep breath; the breath bringing to her the scent of horse flesh and sweet straw, along with the faint perfume that clung to her own hair. The approaching storm beyond swirled in her nose, in her mouth. She could taste it. She ran one gloved hand over Thanatos' shoulders, making nonsense noises in the back of her throat as she wove her other hand into the base of his mane, preparing to hop up.

She swallowed.

And then, she swung her leg over.

Gaston's sharply indrawn breath was as loud as the huff of air the stallion let out upon feeling her mount. He pranced, skipping across the grass, his hoves striking into the soft ground like blades. He threw his head up at her presence, shaking his mane out imperiously. But, he did not try to throw her - which Belle took as a good sign. She didn't dare try to saddle him, and so, instead, she wrapped her short legs as best she could about his massive flanks, and settled her fingers in his glossy mane to keep her seat. His hair slipped like ink through her tan gloves – as if she were a bard, ready to spill her story onto parchment.

"Woah," she breathed, hoping to calm the horse. She sat straight and tall, keeping her seat steady so as to quiet him.

Gaston stepped forward, as if to catch the horse should he decide to be rid of her. But there was no need. She smiled, the line of it hung from her ears as the massive animal stilled under her touch.

When the tilt of his head was more curious than arrogant – his ears twitching back, ready to listen to her – she dared to turn him in small circles, letting them both become used to the feel of each other. He obeyed her well enough, huffing out thick and full breathes, as if he were a dragon held in thrall by some magician's paltry charm. In answer, she felt a warm weight – like magic and stones – settle in her chest.

"Well then," she decided. "I think we're ready."

Gaston nodded sharply. "If you are not back within the next candlemark, I will tell your father on you," he warned.

"You won't need to," Belle returned, her voice imperious and full from the horse's back. She was towering over him. He narrowed his eyes one last time. She slanted her own in return.

With that, she dug her heels into Thanatos' sides.

And the stallion took off like an arrow slung from a crossbow.

They were far enough away from the main buildings so that long stretches of grass were immediately ready and available for a full gallop. Belle guided him towards the winding lanes that split through the paddocks and the huge, rolling pastures. Behind them, thick wet sprays of dirt and grass flew up into the air from the fertile earth. The wind stung at her cheeks, at her eyes, and yet Belle couldn't help the laugh that spilled from her lips at the sensation of ridding so. Beneath her, the stallion's strides were thundering, growing longer and longer as if to eat up the land below them and claim it as his own.

And so Belle showed her teeth to the wind whipping around her, and let him run. His hair struck her face, and the hood of her cloak flew back to let her own tresses free, snapping as if snakes loosed from a mirror. _Freedom_, the stallion's neigh seemed to scream to the air. _Freedom_, his hoof beats sung; and Belle felt the song echoed by her heartbeat. It was _this_ she craved, she knew on that moment – more than the stale castle air, and the simpering and pandering ways of the nobility; the cloaks and daggers and dark threats of wars on the borders of their land. _This_.

When they had left the fields far behind them in turn for the paths that led through the forest, she finally felt the stallion slow. His stride was still high and prancing, but no longer did he run like he was trying to outpace a banchee's screams. The forest threw thick shadows over his dark coat, painting him in leaf shaped patterns with the light that slipped through the canopy of trees over their heads. The path before them was dark and wet – the forest holding the moisture of the rains from the last few days more so than the lanes beyond them, where the peaking sun had tried to dry the earth earlier in the day.

Above them, the sky rumbled. Still, she did not turn back.

"I don't see what all the fuss was about," Belle said instead, patting the great horse's neck fondly. He was damp with sweat, but his ears were swirling restlessly, alight and curious. Her hands were slick within her gloves, and her legs stretched from holding to such a mount, but she couldn't remember a time being happier. "You're nothing more than a big softy."

The stallion's eyes rolled, as if he understood her words. They shone as mirrors, throwing the forest shadow right back to where the light had cast it from.

"I suppose we should turn back now," Belle finally said aloud when she reached the next turn in the trail. It would already take her a good twenty minutes to return home, and the last thing she wanted was for Gaston to be there with her father, furious and cross, when she returned to the stable.

Overhead, the sky rumbled, like a giant rousing from his sleep. She darted a glance up, and felt the moisture in the air turn thick, constricting.

And so they turned.

Above them, the sky spiked. She could feel the static build on her skin, echoing in the hollow places behind her heart and lungs.

And then thunder cracked, loud and unexpected upon the forest air.

Belle's eyes widened as, beneath her, Thanatos neighed wildly at the sound. He reared, his hooves flashing in the air as she held on desperately in order to not fall off. She clenched her legs tight, and forced her eyes to stay open as she wound her fingers in the horse's mane - as if she were ivy about a stone wall.

_I will not fall, I will not fall_, she whispered the mantra in her mind. She would not fall, and she would not muddy her stolen breeches, and Gaston would not laugh, and her father _would not_ know how she had challenged what he said she could not conquer and _failed_.

Thunder struck again, and Thanatos' terrified whinny was loud enough to match - a challenge to the very heavens above. Thunder clapped again – an answer.

And, with that, he took off through the forest path. Belle held on for dear life.

He ran hot and heavy and hard, as if he were a mad and possessed thing wearing flesh and bone as a false skin. The path before them was uneven. Belle could feel every dip, every twist and rise and fall as the stallion's strides threatened to throw her from her seat. Her arms ached within their sockets. Her fingers strained against the fistfuls of his mane she had desperately grabbed on to.

"Thanatos!" she cried, the wind stealing her voice. "Thanatos stop!" But he did not hear her, and he did not slow.

Around them, the forest carried on; the trees spinning like black fingers, trying to catch her. He galloped through a shallow brook, and Belle felt the water as it splashed up onto her legs, cold and icy. She clutched tighter to the stallion's sides, and waited for the nightmare ride to end.

It was only when they reached the lanes past the forest when Belle heard a familiar voice behind her.

"Belle!"

Father! She identified the voice. Her heart leapt with sick fear and giddy relief, both.

She risked a glance to her side as she saw her lord father astride his familiar bay gelding. Philippe was the old horse she knew as well as Buttercup - dependable and familiar and fresh legged enough to easily catch up to the terrified Thanatos.

Maurice pulled up beside her and the big black, holding one arm out to her. "Belle, reach over to me! Now!"

Her stomach twisted at the command. For surely if she let go, she would fall. Choking on her fear as if it were a tonic she was forced to swallow, she let go of Thanatos' mane, and reached over for her father.

As soon as she was free, Maurice reached out a strong arm, and pulled her from the stallion's back. He steadied her small form easily – tucking her into the hollow between his neck and chin, one arm still tight about her body. She dug her fingers into the front of his doublet, her knuckles white as her heart continued to thunder against her chest. She swallowed, trying to wet her very dry mouth.

"Belle, are you all right?" even with the rage she could see in her father's eyes, his first concern was for her welfare. His voice shook.

She nodded, her hair knotted and wind blown as it fell before her face. "Yes, father." Philippe had come to a full stop at her father's hand, and Belle looked past them to where Thanatos was still running, crying out to the thunderclouds above.

"Thanatos," she started, concerned – for if he hurt himself on the lane, and the worst happened -

"He is returning home out of his own accord," Maurice said stiffly. "There are more riders sent to fetch him." And, sure enough, Belle could see to where three of the stable lads were cutting across another path in order to intercept the stallion. He would be okay.

Relief pooled in her stomach, like the ocean filling a shell.

A relief that was all to quickly felt, it would seem, for the next thing she knew, Maurice had pushed her an arm's length away so that he could meet her eyes. "What were you thinking, you foolish girl?" he exclaimed. She opened up her mouth to defend herself, when he cut her off, continuing, "There is a reason I have not let you ride anything more than Buttercup -"

" - he was the perfect mount until the thunder came," Belle protested.

"And then he damn near killed you," Maurice returned, his face reddening. "You do not have the control to properly handle him when he is at his worst – and that is a time you can never properly predict!"

She was silent, bearing the rebuke with burning ears. "And look at you now," Maurice continued. "Wearing a man's clothes, with mud soaking you to the bone. You are not even fit to be seen! Really, my girl, if I were to lock you up in a tower and shut you away, not a single soul would question my decision. By the gods, if your mother was alive . . ." His voice tapered. It fell. For she was not, and her loss still touched them all.

Belle's lips formed a tight, thin line. "She would have laughed to see me with mud upon my face," she whispered under her breath. For the Lady Claire had been the first to instruct Belle in the saddle, and she had never been on to rise to the court and its demands as did her merchant-king husband.

Maurice sighed, deep and from his chest. Belle could feel the breath against her cheek. Her stomach twisted, and she regretted her words at the old and tired look that invaded his eyes. "One of these days, you will meet a beast you won't be able to tame." Her father's voice was a blade, seeking to cut. "And I will not always be there to save you."

Belle bowed her head, burying her hands in the mane of her father's mount. "Yes father," she responded, her voice soft.

Maurice sighed, and seeing her beaten, he wrapped an arm around her again. She was warm in his embrace, held close and listening to the steady cadence of Philippe's hoof beats as they returned home.

Above them, the rain had started to fall.

.  
>.<p>

It had been almost ten years since her stolen ride with Thanatos. And, as these stories tended to go, it was once again raining - storming as if the devil himself was spinning through the clouds in an evil rage, dropping spells and sparks on the world below.

And it was that night when she finally found the book she had been searching for.

Above and around them, the palace curved like a shield about a knight – the rain slick against the shingles and the stones, singing a song of warning. Beyond them, the edges of the storm were lit with orange and red – made crimson by the campfires of the troops on the front line not even thirty leagues from them. Beyond the city, the forests still continued to burn, no matter the downpour of rain above. Even in the castle, the halls were littered with broken things – pages were torn from books; vases, once priceless, were in pieces on the floors. Everywhere, once treasures were no more, overturned and defiled from the battles that had reached the very heart of kingdom itself. Even the rooms of the great castle had fallen into disrepair – for the maids and the house staff had long been sent away, back at the beginning of the War. Only the knights and a select few of her father's council had remained behind. The men of war . . . and her. Even with her father's adamant protests, she had still refused to run – insisting that the safest place for her was by his side, surrounded by the fiercest of his warriors. Never mind that the war had cut through their strongest ranks. Never mind that the battle was close enough to be heard from the very battlements of the castle. The sounds from the front lines plagued her nights - the shouts of the warring, the screams of the dying.

And Belle could stand the sound of them no longer.

Unrest between her kingdom and the land of the Ogre King had long been present - as far back as she could remember, at any rate. Back when Belle was just more than a girl, her mother, Lady Claire, had been killed by a hunting party of ogres in the forests between their two lands. War had been staved back then when the Ogre King had stepped forward and saw that the guilty had been swiftly brought to justice, but tempers had been thin and wane between their peoples as a result. And then, when a successor with little of grace and much of war in his veins had succeeded the throne . . .

The war had been long, and the war had been bloody, and no longer did it look like a fight they could hope to win.

In the last convoy of supplies, she had heard whispers spoken in hushed tones from one of the remaining merchants who dared to venture that close to the front lines – an old man with kind eyes and a storyteller's mouth. He had whispered to her of a gold-spinner in the northern part of the mountains which split the five kingdoms – whispered of a curse-dealer who could aid any pain – solve any problem, but for a price. The deal-weaver had aided the trader in time's past, brewing a potion that had allowed the man's wife to forget the death of her unborn child in order to so care for the one left living. Of his price, Belle knew not what had been paid – for the merchant would speak not, and the smallest part of her did not want to know . . .

When she had asked the merchant how to summon the Spinner, the merchant had admitted that he did not know how – he had not had to seek out the aid so much as it had appeared to him at just the needed time. Belle, though, did not have that time – _her people _did not have that time.

When she told her plan to seek out the Spinner to Gaston, he had humored her - indulging her belief in fae tales and magical things. Over the years, her gangly friend had grown strong and darkly handsome, and he had grown into his sword as well. He would never be a knight warring on the front lines, but he held a bravery of his own – a nobleman's bravery and haughty eyes. He accompanied her to the library – a place all but forgotten within the last few months, and aided her in flipping through the dusty tomes. He blankly skimmed the pages before him, thinking their quest to be a fruitless one. That first night, he had simply indulged her, his words few and patronizing when they were spoken. She set her jaw at his indulgence, but did not speak against him helping. And yet, by the third night she had pulled him into the library with her, his protests were full and vocal upon his lips.

"They call this man the Dark One for a reason, Belle," Gaston was saying sharply then – as he had said dozens of times over the course of that evening. "Magicks of this kind are not to be played with."

"There is no reward without risk," she returned, her tone determined as she flipped through yet another volume speaking of dark and stormy things. That night, the section of the library in which they searched had been a gift from King Leopold's lands. The fair Queen Reinette and now-widow of the Western Kingdom had always had her hand dipped in the elemental arts, and the books that her husband had collected for her throughout the years had been the first thing that she had gotten rid of upon his death. Belle had never met the late King, nor his widow, but she had always been thankful for their gift. When he had first seen her glee over the enchanted tomes, her father had rolled his eyes, and wondered aloud why he was cursed with a daughter who preferred the library and the council chamber over both spindle and needle. She knew that she was a source of puzzlement to him - the daughter who shied away from learning a matron's duties, who tarried in selecting a hand from the row of suitors he made to parade by her.

Of which, she reflected wryly, Gaston most certainly thought himself to be foremost. He already styled them as engaged, even going so far as to say it publicly, although they held no promise between them.

Her fingers over the book she held curved at the thought. The leather was soft against her fingertips, supple and warm, even though the library around them was cold.

"Your search is pointless," Gaston said again as he threw down another book. "You could search this library a dozen times over, and still not find the gold-spinner's name."

"Well then," Belle said, pursing her lips, "we had better search faster. Please, stay your tongue and help me, or leave me be to search in peace."

Gaston sighed, leaning back against the wing backed chair he was sitting in. His fingers tapped restlessly against the worn wood of the table between them. "I would not leave you alone when you are looking through such things," he finally said. "These books are unholy, and it is not . . . well, suffice to say, that some things are not meant to be seen by fair eyes. I would not leave you alone with some of the things which reside in these tomes."

Belle bit her lip, and placed down the book she held. When she drew her hands back, she was almost surprised that the enchantments holding the book together did not stain her skin. Even with all of the superstitions her people held about such things, she had yet to be touched.

And that was the reason she would never take his hand, she thought sadly in that moment. Gaston was a good man – and a good friend, the shadow to her childhood – but he was also a simple man, set in his views. And those views would have her as home maker and mother. A dainty trinket on his arm, and a pretty bride to hang up like a vase – there was no depth of feeling to be shared with him. No great love to be celebrated. And while she knew herself to be silly for wanting more, want more she did. And with that wanting, she would not curse Gaston to a lifetime at her side. Dear Gaston with his simple affections deserved a demure lady of the court who could return that in the way he deserved. He did not need her as his bride - her with her flames behind her eyes, and her restless feet under the layers of her ballgowns . . . It would curse him in time as surely as it would her.

Her fingers tapped against the leather cover of the next book she had in her pile. She opened it, blew dust away from its words.

And her heart skipped a beat.

"I found it!" she exclaimed, the storm beyond them spiking at her words. "Gaston, look here!"

She sprang up from her seat, and ran around the side of the table in order to show him her find. The book she held was old – a journal, by the looks of it, written in a graceful and looping hand. The ink pulsed as she flipped through the pages, alive with an old and deep magic that sung with the intentions of its reader.

When she placed the journal down before Gaston, she showed him what had caught her eye – the picture of a spindle and wheel, and a detailed and dark account of the magicks needed in order to spin straw into gold. The incantations on the page were written in a language that Belle did not understand – but further on in the book there was a rhyme she most certainly did.

A rhyme, and a name . . .

"We know how to call him now," Belle said breathlessly, looking to Gaston to hold the same anticipation on his face that she felt blooming on her own.

Instead, his stare was sharp, his mouth a thin line as he said, "There will be no turning you back then?" in a voice that struck.

She set her jaw. "I am afraid not."

And Gaston sighed. "If your father knew -"

" - he will know only if you tell him in the middle of my invocation," Belle said sharply. "And he will agree to see the Weaver if it means the end of the war. We can lose no more – our kingdom cannot be pushed any farther before breaking."

And at that, Gaston was very quiet before her, his eyes serious upon hers. She returned his stare – made it a blow to match. He sighed. "You must know that I worry only for your safety," he finally said, his voice weary. "I wish no harm to befall you, and if that means your life over the kingdom, then that price is one I would gladly pay time and time again."

His words pulled. Gently, Belle felt herself smile. "I will be fine," she tried to sooth as best she could. "Know that this is something that I have to do . . . for all of our sakes."

He breathed in deep, but she saw the moment where the battle was won in his eyes. "I do not trust this beast you wish to summon," he still said. "I will watch, and if he utters so much as one syllable that displeases me, I will sunder the connection before you can think to blink. Are we understood?"

The shape of his words was a needle at her fingertip, and she frowned upon hearing it. Did he not know that she did not need his sword? She did not need his shield to hide behind. It was never what she had wanted from him.

"Perfectly," her voice was dry when she answered.

"Then," he inclined his head, "how do we summon the fiend?"

"Like this," she said, her voice heavy as trepidation finally leaked into her mind. She had never used magic of any kind – for such things were not suitable for fine ladies. Even more unacceptable than her ideals and her restless feet were the shapes of spells and potions. Such dark arts were not made for fainting ladies; such elemental spells not acceptable for pure maidens with good hearts . . .

She shook her head, willing such thoughts away. They had no bearing on the here and now.

In the darkest corner of the library, she had had Gaston bring down one of the remaining mirrors from above. There was a dark velvet drape covering the glass, which she then unveiled, tugging upon the thick fabric until it gave. Gently, she placed the journal down on the floor before the mirror, and opened the enchanted tome to its center. On the page, runic symbols gleamed, thick and red like wine. She pressed her finger to the magic words, and felt her skin tingle as the ink popped against her touch, flaring as if possessed. Her blood flared in her veins, thick and spiced. She swallowed, wetting her mouth.

Behind her, hidden from the mirror's view, Gaston nodded.

And Belle began to read the right words aloud.

"Caspar," she whispered the first name. The syllables fell from her mouth as venom would drip from a fang. The name pulsed in time with her heartbeat, mirroring the storm beyond. "Melchior," the second name was spoken. "Balthazar," the third, "whether you be near or be far."

Her fingers traced over the runes. Beyond them, lightning forked across the sky, striking the room even through the thickly drawn drapes.

"Son of night and blood and flame . . . " And Belle inhaled. Found her courage; made it her own. "Rumpelstiltskin, I call thy name!"

She exhaled.

Beyond them, thunder cracked. Light flared through the room – brightening the leather spines of the books, and catching in the chandeliers above that had been sitting quietly, gathering dust. The mirror flashed as if it held the storm within its smooth surface. Behind her, she heard the hiss of a sword leaving its scabbard, and furiously, she glared back at Gaston, willing him to be silent as the mirror flared into life.

Her fingers fell away from the grimoire, the slip of skin and paper a caress. For a moment, the mirror showed her nothing but her own face – wild eyed with magic still flushing her cheeks and brightening her gaze until it was an unnatural shade of blue.

And then -

"You summoned me, dearie."

When the voice spoke, she was still bowed over the book, her hair spilling over her shoulders and her head tilted up so that she looked at the mirror through her lowered lashes. Her mouth was dry, her tongue thick as she straightened. In the mirror, she no longer saw her own reflection - only a foreign creature who made no effort to mirror her.

"I did," she said, her voice holding a strength that she struggled to keep in her bones. Her heart thundered, more than a match for the storm beyond.

"And who are you to ask me here so?" the merry voice chortled. Such cheer, she remarked, her ears filled with a sharp and bubbling humor where she had expected lethal whispers and growled words – a dragon's hiss and a dark night's stain. The man in the mirror – could she call him a man? - was a stranger to her gaze; shorter than Gaston and her father's knights but still taller than herself. He was wry and lean, with too large eyes and a wicked grin that stretched beneath a hooked nose. His skin seemed to be scaled under the glass – shining green and silver and gold as the light played over him. His hair was unkempt, curling down to brush the top of his large collar – a sorcerer's cowl, made from snake skin and leather. _The pelts of children_, _stitched together with twine made from their hair, _the dark tales in her mind whispered, and she swallowed.

But still, she could not tear her eyes away. "I am Belle," she let her voice ring out. "Daughter of his majesty the King Maurice, and I have summoned you here to seek your aid."

"Maurice," Rumpelstiltskin – she kept the appellation straight within her mind, knowing of its power – mused thoughtfully, the name a popping bubble upon his tongue. "Of the wonderfully lovely little kingdom-town in the north? You have on your hands a pesky little Ogre problem, do you not?"

"And it is that which I ask your aid for," Belle confirmed.

"Ah," the syllable clicked. "And aren't you a brave one, dearie, using that book so. Don't you know that there are things in those pages that could tear you apart?"

He did not say for or against him being one of those things. Belle pressed her lips together. "It was a risk, certainly," she was sure to return to him - for she was ever mindful of a beast's claws.

"Not as risky as carrying on against an army of ogres, then?" he questioned, curiosity apparent in his eyes, even through the mirror's image.

"There are rumors that say that you can be prevailed upon to grant your aid," she said, her voice turning helplessly as she pleaded her case. "Our knights are dying and our people are suffering. The battles have blocked off the trade routes, and our people starve. Without those routes, we cannot even feed and supply our men. So many have already fallen, and many more will fall still if we do not act."

"Such is the way of the world," he agreed, his laughing voice cruel.

"Not if you were to grant your hand," she said, her voice slipping fiercely. "We do not expect charity – we can pay, and we can pay well. My father is a rich man -"

And at that the imp laughed.

" - and he can meet any price you can set. And deal you can think to strike."

"And what if my price is past what the good king can pay?" he returned, leaning forward until she thought he would slip from the mirror and into the room before her. Still kneeling upon the ground, she refused to back away from him. "Wars are fought and waged and won and lost all of the time. What should make your kingdom so special?"

Belle bristled. "I suppose that that would be for you to decide," she declared, keeping his gaze held within her own. Such a dark gaze to hold, she thought, all nightmare black – the punctuation points of wishes. "I ask only that you come and meet with my lord father, and see if a deal can be struck."

The grin on his face hooked. Belle stilled, realizing how she had misspoke.

He clapped his hands together in glee. "You mean to say that the little princess has summoned the beast without permission of the king?" His glance darted about the shadows of the library, reading the secrets in the darkness and finding their truths. "Not even guard or knight or champion to aid you should I pierce the glass and decide to share your shadow? You have only your squared jaw and that poor dandy behind you with his shaking hand on the hilt of his sword?"

Behind Belle, she heard a curse. Rumpelstiltskin waved a greeting. "Hello to you too, lad."

"No," still she agreed. "My father knows not of this meeting."

"Now that _is _special," he laughed merrily, his eyes twinkling. His gaze was a weight, considering, and still Belle held it.

A moment passed. Her heart thundered – striking hard against her chest.

"Alright then, dearie – I will meet your father, and tell to him my price."

Her relief was so palpable that she could feel it move through her veins. Her eyes fluttered closed, a long forgotten smile on her lips as she beamed a the creature in the mirror. "Thank-you," the words gushed from her mouth before she could stop them. "You have the gratitude of my people, of my -"

"The only gratitude I needed was yours," he cut her off, his head tilted. The half smile on his mouth was crooked, as if slanted back from a blade. "And no bargain has been struck. I said only that I would meet with your father."

"There have been so few of victories as of late that I will count that as half the battle won," Belle shook her head. Before her, the book had warmed, the runes dancing in the air between them.

"Well then, tomorrow I shall come – right past sundown. And to your father, I will offer my bargain. Until then," the reflection in the mirror bowed – a grand bow that was more jester than courtier with its shape. The air around them flared – the scent of storms and mountain snow left behind as the mirror lost its ghost. The room filled with light; the storm a punctuation to the snap of magic in the air as the contact was broken – the spell torn apart.

Belle covered her eyes to protect them from the glare, and when she blinked, the mirror was empty. The surface was cracked – shattered; glass all over the floor like fallen stars.

She was still for a long, long moment, staring in amazement where the Dark One had been until she registered Gaston standing beside her – helping her to her feet. She took the help he offered, suddenly unsteady on her own two legs. Her heart still hammered in her chest, her limbs shook in the aftershocks of the spell.

"We did it then," her words bubbled as his had – mad and joyous and so very full of hope.

Beside her, Gaston did not share her joy. Instead his eyes were narrowed, his skin a pallid and pale shade. In the mirror, his reflection before her was broken. "Come now, we must tell your father that the beast comes hence." Gaston's mouth was a thin, straight line.

"That _beast_," she returned the appellation sharply, "will save us all."

"But for what price?" Gaston reminded her. "Who knows what he will ask of us."

"Whatever it is," Belle said, summoning her confidence, "it will be the price that will deliver this kingdom."

Gaston's look was long, and for once, it was tired. She felt it settle as a weight about her shoulders. "Perhaps," he said. "Or, perhaps we were better off being indebted to the ogres. They can only take flesh and bone. Far from them are heads and hearts and souls."

And, to that, she had nothing to say. She could only hold her head up high, and clutch the spellbook close to her chest. Whatever price it was, they would face it on the next eve. And, with everything inside of her, Belle tried to tell herself that this was the same as taking Thanatos for a stolen ride across the back lanes of her father's estate. She was simply dealing with a mad pony and the storms raging far above them.

And so, pay the Spinner's price, they would.

* * *

><p><strong>End Notes<strong>

**Belle's Chant**: Was made using the first three names (Caspar, Melchior, and Balthazar) that the Miller's daughter guessed for Rumpelstiltskin back in the Grimm fairytale.

**Belle Summoning Rumpelstiltskin**: I know that this probably wasn't what the show had in mind when Rumpelstiltskin mentioned that he was summoned to help the kingdom, but I did like the idea of them interacting before he decided to take her on as a permanent resident. After all, _something _had to strike his fancy past her looking rather lovely in her ballgown, right? And a fearless girl who jumped in over her head with spells and runes and contracts without blinking may have been the thing to do the trick. At least, that was what the muse was thinking. She can be rather pushy with her ideas. ;)

And so, until next time . . .

**~MJ**


	3. Part II: ne'er to be a damsel fair

**Part II: "ne'er to be a damsel fair"**

"You foolish, foolish child!"

Try as she might, Belle could not contain her wince as her father's voice fell like a lash upon her ears. Over the years, no matter how brave and right she may have felt when embarking upon a course her father would not approve of, there never was a time when she could feel anything but sheepish when he stood before her at that path's end. In her mind, she tried to tell herself that this was just like any other time she had invoked her father's anger – the blush on her cheeks, her place kneeling before her father's throne was all familiar to her. She kept her head downcast, careful to lower her eyes to stare at the floor. By her side, Gaston too was kneeling, but his eyes were not on Maurice, but on her, cross and accusing and so I-told-you-so that she wanted to reach over and elbow his him in his side.

Her father's glare burned, yet if she tried hard enough, for a moment she could imagine that she again wore stolen breeches, her cheeks muddy as her father raved over her stealing a horse she could not control. For a very short moment, that was.

"Do you have any idea what you have done?" her father continued to rage, not still upon his throne, but rather pacing before her. She could see his boots clear in her line of vision, but little else. The marble tiles were glazed over and scuffed, dull with their neglect. Still, they were cool under her hands. "Do you realize the danger of invoking the aid of such a one? Did you think the ogres to be a nightmare on our borders? What better would it be to be indebted to one such as _him_?"

"I only ask you to meet with him," finally she raised her voice. Still she kept her eyes down - demure and respectful, even as her blood pumped hot and mighty through her veins. "No deal was struck, no bargain was made. He cannot, and he will not, act without that deal in place." For creatures of magic had their codes, even if they were not the codes of mortal men.

"The girl speaks true in that sense," came a sniff of a voice from the man who stood at her father's right hand. Marquis D'Arque was chief amongst her father's advisers; a tall and too lean man with long graying hair which he had drawn into a queue at the back of his neck, even though the very top of his head was balding. He had long, strong features punctuated by hooded eyes and a hawkish beak of a nose. He wore rich grey and blue tones in a last semblance of vanity - for jewels and other such totems had been done away with in the times that they faced. Her father trusted his word implicitly. Unfortunately. "But it is a foolish thing to invoke the Dark One's name. He can bring nothing but ruin and damnation, even in aid."

Belle cared little for the adviser. D'Arque was a self righteous and rigid man, puffed up on the idea of his own holiness. Half of her father's scoldings came from D'Arque's mouth into Maurice's ear, which would be but a mere annoyance to her, had Maurice not held so close to any other word of advice that came from the Marquis, as well.

His low opinion of her mattered little to her, but she would not see D'Arque's prejudices – his strict ways and his disdain for the unholiness of magic – do harm to her kingdom when she could see otherwise.

"I fail to see what other options we have left to us," Belle still insisted. "We cannot survive another fortnight of not feeding our troops -"

" - we have found ways around that," D'Arque interrupted. "Not that it is required of us to inform you, your highness, but Avonlee has offered their aid in the form of food, and -"

" - begging your pardon, your grace," a third voice interrupted, this voice belonging to the captain of her father's guard – Sir Le Fou, a strong and steel boned man with dark skin and even darker eyes. "But Avonlee has taken significant losses of their own. Their numbers dwindle even quicker than ours do – it would not be wise to count upon those routes to remain open to us as they now are."

Maurice blinked. "You would see this path taken for aid, then?" he asked Le Fou.

Le Fou frowned, his lips tight. He wore chain-mail and armor, even in the high morning hour, and the early sun glinted off of the steel plates. "I would see any path taken that may preserve the lives of my men, yes."

D'Arque sneered, but Le Fou held his gaze.

Maurice's eyes turned heavy, falling away from Belle. Upon seeing so, Belle cast a pleading gaze to Gaston by her side. He had been there with her during those long nights in the library when she had done her research. He had listened when she pleaded their case, and he had personally heard the Spinner's answers in return. He understood her reasons better than any other, and even if he held his own reservations, he had not stopped her when she summoned the deal-maker to her mirror. He knew as well as she did that this was their last chance – their only hope.

Gaston inhaled deeply, his chest expanding before her gaze. He was still kneeling, his cheeks flushed from having taking a tongue lashing of his own for not having stopped her – and before speaking, he got to his feet. With his head still bowed respectfully, he defended her, "I believe that Belle's actions were the only option left to us that would let this kingdom escape without destruction."

Maurice looked at him, holding his declaration in his eyes. Besides Gaston, Le Fou stood up straighter – both taking up her argument as their own. "I was there when she summoned the Spinner – he spoke of an ogre army as one may speak of brushing away a fly. He would have no problem turning the war to our favor."

"And what of the price he would demand?" D'Arque's voice was harsh in return. "For too long have I seen wielders of the dark arts such as he wreck havoc on our lands. The mirrored Queen in the West, the Black Lady Maleficent in the South, the Witch of the Sea in the East, and the very Dark One himself just north of our own lands - they and their kind are a scourge, and if we wish to rid the kingdoms of this plague, then we must not indulge them, even in times like these!"

"We won't have a kingdom left if we don't seek his help," Le Fou said, his voice a blow.

"And we can pay him," Gaston insisted. "We are second only to Midas in wealth – we can see that the price he demands is one we can pay in gold." For what they lacked in royal lineage – having made their fortunes as merchants and working men – they made up for in riches enough to stand toe to toe with any other kingdom in the land.

Maurice turned the arguments over in his mind, his eyes heavy and his shoulders slumped. Already he looked like one defeated, and if he would not see reason . . .

"We have people depending on us," Belle spoke her last argument, her voice soft, her tone pleading. "There are families that look to us to deliver them. Not all of the outlying villages were evacuated before the first blow was struck, and thousands of farmsteads are still fending for themselves. The city right beyond us teams with those seeking refuge, and we have no future to offer them – no food for their mouths, and no work to replace that what they have lost. It would be unthinkable – unpardonable, even, to let our silly prejudices spell the doom for those we were sworn to protect."

Maurice sighed, the breath torn from the deep of him.

"Being indebted to the Dark One will ruin us as surely as standing on our own against the ogres," D'Arque still whispered, his voice silky ad pressing. "Is that a fate you would wish for your people?"

"All magic is not for ill," Belle insisted. "It is the wielder who makes the magic black or bright. This salvation we seek need not be viewed as the most vilest of enchantments."

"They call him the Dark One for a reason, my dear," Maurice snorted, his eyes soft when he glanced at her. "Do not forget that when setting up a kindness in your heart."

Belle looked down. Her palms were still flat against the cold marble. "His deals are grey of nature," she still claimed. "He does not force his schemes. None have suffered at his hand who did not know full well who and what they were dealing with when agreeing to his terms."

"He makes deals only with those who have their backs against the wall," D'Arque returned. "They have no choice but to accept his conditions – no matter how hellish they may be."

"And we are now one of those who have no choice," finally, Maurice spoke his decision.

All looked to him.

"Sir?" Le Fou questioned.

"I will see the Dark One," Maurice said slowly, stopping his pacing when he stood behind his throne. When he curved his hands over the back of the chair, his fingers were white at the knuckles. "And I will pay his price. No matter what the cost."

Upon hearing so, Belle stood, her smile stretching across her face as hope bloomed in her heart. "And it will be a decision you shall not regret," she immediately went to assure.

Maurice snorted ruefully. "You say so now, my child. Those may not be your words upon the morning hour."

"Always will they be my words when our people are safe," Belle insisted, moving to stand by her father's side and take his hands in her own. They were cold upon her own. Faintly, they trembled.

And still the Marquis seethed. "Then they will strike you, as a fool's words often come back to do," he said. His voice was a low simmer, even after the King had spoken. Belle felt her mouth set at the imprudence of him speaking so.

"That is your opinion, and not one for you to voice after the king has decided our way," she finally spoke directly to the Marquis.

"And in any other land, you would not even be permitted to speak in a man's council," D'Arque's voice swam dangerously.

Belle squared her jaw. She narrowed her eyes. "And yet I have spoken. And I have been heard – where you have not."

She saw the exact moment where her words struck where aimed. The Marquis advanced upon her, his gaze menacing. Gaston stepped before her, a firm hand pushing her behind him. She glared at his back, stepping instead to his side. If he ever did claim her hand as he wished to, that place would be hers and always hers. She turned her chin up, and watched the Marquis approach with unblinking eyes.

Le Fou and his men stepped forward at the same time, their hands on the hilts of their swords – daring the adviser to come any closer. D'Arque balled his hands into fists by his side. He stayed his course.

Instead, he turned to the King. "She undermines your authority, your majesty, don't you see? She mocks your position, just as Claire did -"

" - You," and finally Maurice's voice was sharp upon his favored, "will speak not of my wife. Claire was an asset to our kingdom. And her loss is something we all still suffer from."

"Of course, your Majesty," D'Arque bowed, low and deep from the waist as he respun his words. "I mean only to say that Claire suffered a most grievous fate for her headstrong ways. I would hate to see the same fate befall your dear daughter. She is, after all, such a light in these dark times."

Belle stared at the adviser's sweet words, feeling them rot in her ears. But her father was soothed as he always was. He waved a hand, sending the Marquis and his convoy away.

Maurice watched D'Arque go before turning to Le Fou. The knight instantly took to one knee under his king's gaze, bowing his head respectfully. And Maurice said, "Make your men ready. We have a visitor coming this eve, and I don't want him to make a single move that we do not control or dictate ourselves, am I understood?"

Le Fou finally raised his eyes. "My men will take their arms – they will be stationed at every entrance, and positioned upon every wall. We shall be ready."

"I know you will," Maurice smiled kindly.

The knight too bowed, and took his leave.

Belle and Gaston were left with her father, who once again took his seat upon his throne. His head was heavy when he laid it into his hand, but hope had lit a final spark in his eyes. It was the same hope that Belle felt knot by her heart – felt it as it spun about her bones like ivy.

Beyond them, the front lines continued to burn. But not for much longer.

Not much longer, indeed.

.

.

That night, she decided to wear gold as if preparing for dancing, rather than war. There hadn't been a ball held in her father's court in nearly a year - no finely dressed ladies and sharply tailored lords, no music on the air, no colorful partners spinning in time to the steps older than them all. Chef Bouche's kitchens had been absent of their bustle, and the halls were dead of their souls minus those who wore chain-mail and scabbards.

The dress she had chosen was made up by layers and layers of golden yellow fabric – delicate and gauzy, the cut of it dropping off of her shoulders and clenching at her waist, flattering in a way that none of the practical gowns she had been wearing as of late were. The skirt of the dress was full and voluminous, bustling to trail behind her without impairing her step. The intricacy of the dress was grand – even for the gowns Belle had had from before the war. Even for her, who preferred simple garments (and man's breeches when she really could get away with it), the gown was stunning, and it had hung in her closet for far too long.

At first, parts of the dress were slightly too big on her – she had lost weight over the past year, from stress and simpler meals than she was accustomed to – and she had needed to call on the hours her tutors had insisted she learn her needlework to actually do something more practical than weave handkerchiefs or loom tapestries. In the end, the dress fit her as if she had never parted from it, and her stitches were even straight enough to impress her strictest tutor.

After slipping into the dress (tying her own corset was a bit of a pain, but she managed), Belle twisted up her hair before her mirror – the same one she had broken with her invocation the night before, and painted her lips. The motions were foreign to her, nearly forgotten over the months, and even odder still when she had no maid to help her. It was just her and her own hands, and yet, in the end, that only heightened her satisfaction with the image that stared back at her.

She had long been told she was beautiful, but she didn't quite believe it until she looked into the mirror. She looked like her mother's reflection, cast from her childhood memories - with her rich chestnut hair, and her crystal blue gaze. She had her mother's eyes, her father had always told her; wide and just short of being too large for her face. Her memories of the Lady Claire had softened and faded over the years, and yet, all it took was a looking glass in order to restore them to her. The necklace she wore about her neck had the diamond that had once sat within her mother's wedding ring – not the whole band, for the metal of the ring had been damaged in the attack that took Claire's life. The diamond was small and modest, and still Belle knew the exact shape of it under her fingers.

It was a weight, anchoring her as she readied herself to leave.

She picked up the grimoire from the night before, and took one last glance about the room, assuring herself that there was nothing she was forgetting. That was it then. She had no further cause to delay.

She breathed in deep, and finally, she walked into the hall beyond. At the end of the foyer before the grand staircase, Gaston was already waiting for her. His eyes widened at the sight of her in her finery, but he schooled his expression away quickly enough. Still she caught the dip of his eyes over the creamy expanse of her shoulders; the clench of her waist that the corset created. The appraisal sat oddly against her skin, and she had to force herself to keep her hands at her sides, rather than cross her arms over her chest, as if she were hiding.

"You look lovely," Gaston said, his voice sincere. "I almost didn't recognize you without ink or mud staining your face."

She darted a glance up at him. "Thank-you," she said, the two syllables holding awkwardly between them.

He offered her his arm, and she looped it through her own. "It is odd," he said as they started to walk, "that you chose this night over any other to dress so."

She tilted up her chin. "I wished to look my best, in order to reflect well on my kingdom."

A moment of silence. "Of course," Gaston said, dancing around the thoughts that were in his eyes.

She exhaled through her nose, and concentrated on walking down the stairs without tripping over the long fall of fabric spilling around her. "You too, are wearing your best," she pointed out, noting the blue velvet of his doublet, and the black lace that clung to his collar and sleeves. His boots were polished to a high shine, and the sword holstered at his hip gleamed.

"Trust me," Gaston said, "there is a difference."

She darted her gaze up to him, but they were kept from further conversation by Maurice and his advisers at the bottom of the stairway. A dozen familiar faces smiled somberly and inclined their heads, and when Belle searched their faces she was pleased to see that Marquis D'Arque was not amongst them. As the councilman and knights filed into the room, Maurice stopped, and took her hands in his own.

"For a moment I had thought that it was your mother floating down to me," Maurice said, his gaze warm upon his daughter. "You are a vision tonight, child."

Belle stood on the tips of her toes to kiss her father's cheek. "Thank-you, papa," she breathed warmly.

Maurice smiled one more time at her before taking her hand. Together they entered the council chamber.

The chamber was a small one, filled with a long rectangle table, and an ornate chair that served as her father's throne. Over the table, Sir Le Fou already had his maps of the providence spread. Pins tipped off important places on the map, while tiny ceramic structures spoke of settlements and structures of note. There were red dots on the map – a splatter of ink telling where those fought and those died, the dark crimson of the map points more telling than any long list of casualties. That was another report waiting for them – rolled scroll upon rolled scroll that sat off to the side in the room next to a hundred other discarded things. There would be time for mourning later, after the war was done.

And their kingdom would now have that after.

A row of wall length windows covered the far side of the room. Past the outer walls, the dips in the mountains beyond held the sun as it set. The dusky horizon shone with an unnatural light – where the forests burned and their men fought – more tangible and real than the war maps and its symbols ever would be.

The sun had almost set. But not quite.

Belle walked to the window to spy out the fight beyond. The orange light caught in the sunny fabric of her dress, setting it aflame when she lifted her fingers to press against the glass, touching where smoke rose in the distance.

Her father and Gaston stepped up to the maps – their fingers tracing out strategic points in the mountains to the west of them, and the ocean to the east. Le Fou held reports from the front line in his hands, and he moved the troops over the maps in response to the information he held before conferring quietly with her father and Gaston.

And Belle watched the sun set.

As the last rays vanished, there was a knock at the heavy oak doors. But it was not the Spinner, but rather a messenger from the front, there for Le Fou. Le Fou read the document he was handed, while Maurice took to pacing back and forth in front of his throne. His eyes flickered from the horizon to her, and back again.

The sun was no more beyond them. Only a faint blush of its rays remained visible from behind the massive fires that signaled the front lines, so very close to them.

Belle twisted her fingers in the folds of her gown. Her heart was beating fast, as if trying to out race the turbulent thoughts in her mind. If he did not come . . .

"Avanlee has fallen," Le Fou announced grimly onto the air, the document in his hands being clenched in his fists. "Their king has surrendered."

She sucked in a breath at the news, the tangible desperation of their situation striking her like a blade. Avanlee? Fallen? Belle had dined in the palace there just the summer before. The Queen Aurore had been close friends with her mother, and the Prince Beaujour had had one of the most impressive collections of maps and books on the shape of the world that Belle had ever seen. She closed her eyes as she imagined the library with its balconies that overlooked the sea. She imagined the grand library in tatters, salt burning her eyes as she saw Ogre-men tearing through the great tomes in order to use them as kindle.

Her next breath caught in her throat. Her stomach turned sickly.

Maurice took the parchment from Le Fou with a terse movement. His eyes were quick and sharp as they darted across the missive, and then they just . . . fell. Belle could think of no other word to describe them.

"By the Gods," Maurice breathed at the news, his eyes wide and his skin pale. "We were too late. Too late . . . " He looked numb, his gaze broken as Belle had not seen since the day he had told her that her mother had died.

He looked past her, to the horizon beyond. The sun was gone.

And still the Dark One did not come.

"Just as it is now too late for us," Maurice breathed numbly, the strength leaving him as he collapsed upon his throne, his head held in his hands. At the sight of her father so defeated, Belle felt her throat seize as she dropped to her knees beside him. She took his hand in her own, doing her best to offer what little comfort she could.

Gaston was pacing past them both like a hunting cat, his stride troubled. "He said he would come," he growled. "Why is he not here?"

Belle felt her lungs expand, her eyes strike as she said, "He may still be on his way. Give him time."

"Time," Maurice echoed hollowly. Beyond them, the fires from the front painted his face in sickly warm tones, the rich colors mocking with their vibrancy. "What time is there left to us?"

"Time enough," Belle said stubbornly; remembering the runes under her hands and the laughing eyes curious upon her own. The magic in the air. The storms cowering before the figure in the mirror. There was still hope for them. All was not lost -

Punctuating her thoughts, there was then a pounding at the door, the sound striking where the messenger before had merely knocked. The sound was bold and belligerent as if the one behind knew that such things were a mere courtesy to a being who could slip through the shadows in order to reappear in the light.

"It's him, it has to be him!" Belle found the words slipping from her mouth as if they were water over a fall. Instantly, Maurice stood again, his brow furrowed as he tried to make sense of the sound beyond.

"Impossible!" he exclaimed, "how could he have gotten past the walls?"

How could he have stood in her mirror? How could he promise to magick away an entire army as easily as breathing? The answers were all one and the same, and still Belle felt her heart hammer as their small group gathered before the doors. She held on to her father's arm while Gaston stood before them both, a sliver of steel already showing from his sword as he rested his hand at ready upon the hilt, as ready to do battle as he was to seek aid.

"Open the doors!" Maurice commanded, and Le Fou's men jumped to obey.

Instantly, the guards moved to remove the plank from the doors. Together, they heaved the heavy oak panels open, revealing the hall beyond.

Belle held her breath.

And the hall was empty. There was not a soul but for the broken things littering the marble tiles, and the wide windows beyond that showed ash and devastation and -

"Well, that was a bit of a let down."

She was not the only one who jumped upon hearing the Dark One's voice from behind them. Even Gaston swallowed, the long lines of his throat working as he and every other turned to face Maurice's vacant throne. And the man – _the creature_, who now sat there.

Belle mirrored her father's stride as they inched closer to the smiling figure before them – _Rumpelstiltskin_, with his too large grin and his too dark eyes, his crooked teeth flashing, fit to devour. In his hands, he held the ceramic piece that had denoted Avanlee's place on the battle maps. His sharp nails scoured a pattern onto the tiny shingles, making lines down towers and battlements both.

"How . . ." Maurice's voice hung, a question not quite spoken between them. His brow furrowed, his eyes narrowed.

And Rumpelstiltskin's grin turned sharp, like a panting wolf, drunk on the moon. "You sent me a message, did you not? Something about help! Help! Help us – our people are _dying_! Can you save us?" The words were mocking, almost sing song on his lips as he rose from the throne in a liquid motion, like a snake uncurling from its circle. She could see no weapon at his side, and still every one of her father's council stepped back when he stepped forth. The knights took position to meet him in a direct opposite of the others until the play of bodies in the room was a sick mockery of a court's dance upon the ballroom floor.

Gaston stood directly between her father and the Spinner, his sword fully drawn and aimed towards the enchanter's heart. Rumpelstiltskin eyed the weapon as one may have observed a naughty child before slapping the steel away in an annoyed manner. He then answered his own question. "And the answer is . . . yes. Yes I can. But, for a price."

Her gaze followed him, seemingly pulled and tugged as he walked languidly before them all. His eyes slipped from Maurice to her for a moment, his dark gaze fit to swallow, as she had remembered from the mirror. But this was more than any reflection, mocking and curious. His eyes flickered across her – taking in her painted lips and the golden fabric all around her. The diamond at her throat. Her pulse thundered, and she wondered if he could see that too. She could feel static in the air, fit to strike like lightning.

"We sent you a promise of gold," Maurice's voice took his attention again, speaking as to payment.

Rumpelstiltskin snorted, his eyes chiding and _you-did-not-think-I-would-make-it-that-easy, now-did-you_? "Ah! But you see . . . I _make _gold. No, I was thinking about something a little more special," he drawled the last word until the syllables popped on his tongue.

"Name it," her father's voice fell like a blow.

Rumpelstiltskin still paced before them like a hunting animal. But he did not look her way again. "My price," he said, his voice silken, his eyes catching her father's gaze and spinning it, "is her."

Instantly there was a reaction from all in the chamber – the knights leapt forward, her father uttered a nonsense cry of disbelief. Gaston pushed her behind his back, as if that alone would keep the Dark One's attention from her. His steel caught the light of the fires from beyond, it reflected. The imp only laughed at the display, clapping his hands together and tilting his head. He was playing with them, she realized, teasing them as a kitten did with a mouse. But the conditions were clawed, and very, very serious.

"No!" her father's answer was sudden and expected.

And Gaston too spoke. "Her highness is engaged to me," he claimed boldly, sidestepping her when she tried to move past the shield of him.

Rumpelstiltskin snorted, and turned towards the window. Scales shimmered on the back of his coat, caught in the dying light beyond. "I'm not asking if she's _engaged_," he declared then, answering the unspoken as to his intentions. "I'm not looking for love," the word was rolled on his tongue, as if it were the foulest of curses. "I am simply looking for a caretaker, of my rather large estate." He turned to them again."It's her. Or no deal."

And Maurice would have none of it. "Leave," he declared, his voice thunderous.

Rumpelstiltskin made a disapproving glance, tilting his head to the other man. But he made no further arguments. He merely shrugged, and said, "As you wish."

He turned to leave, and instantly the knights and the courtiers parted like a stream before him. Gaston pushed her back as well, and she glared crossly at him, her fingers digging into his sleeve as protest.

The imp caught her gaze on his way past, and the smirk in his eye was challenging. There were magicks and dark spells aplenty there, and a part of her twisted at the thought of those enchantments leaving without being placed in aid. Where was the defiant child before the mirror? His eyes seemed to ask, and Belle struck her chin out and tried to find an answer for him.

"No, wait!" she called. "I will go with you."

The words surprised everyone in the room, including herself. She blinked, as if by doing so she could pull the words back onto her tongue. But what was said was said, and she could not make the words her own again. And she would not, even if she could. For what was her own freedom, her own life, if all fell to ask and dust around her? It was such a small price to pay, she knew – one for all. She breathed in deep, calling upon every stubborn and brave bone in her body, and stood as if she were a knight before a foe, ready to battle.

She could do this, she told herself. She was brave.

And so, she stepped forward – passing Gaston and her father; stopping before the nightmare creature who would be her people's salvation.

He gave a mad little laugh, pleased by the fire burning behind her eyes.

"I forbid it!" Gaston exclaimed as she passed, a spark worn brightly in his gaze. She turned to him, taken by the vehemence of his words – for this was not the little boy who warned her away from stealing her father's horse, or the man who uttered half empty complaints as she summoned a sorcerer. No, this was desperation in his eyes, and _fear _on his tongue.

And she rose to arms against it, as she always did. "No one decides my fate, but me," she let her voice ring out strong, stronger than she herself felt.

Belle turned her back on him, on her father. "I shall go with you," she declared again.

"It's forever, dearie," he still took to warn her, his eyes flashing. For deals like these were not made to be broken.

She squared her shoulders. "And my family? My friends? My people?" she had to to be sure – she had to specify, for always did words hold their own mischief with deals like this. "They will all live?"

"You have my word," Rumpelstiltskin answered, bowing deeply from his waist, as if he were a courtier asking her to dance.

Brave then. She would be _brave_. "Then," she sealed her fate, "you have mine."

"Deal!" he exclaimed gleefully. The word was final. Binding. She could taste the magic of it on the air.

"Belle," her father found his voice. It trembled on the air between them. "I cannot allow this. You cannot . . . you cannot go with this _beast_."

Rumpelstiltskin pressed his hand to his heart, feigning pain with an exaggerated grimace.

Belle looked from the Dark One to her father. Tenderly, she took Maurice's hands within her own, clasping them as if to better to remember the shape of them. The feel of his skin under her own. The color of his eyes. "Father," she breathed, her voice gentle as she held a farewell in the back of her eyes, "it has been decided. There shall be no reneging on my part."

"She's right, you know," Rumpelstiltskin whispered. His voice crawled like claws tapping against scales. "The deal has been _struck_."

Standing on the tips of her toes, Belle kissed her father's cheek, her eyes swimming as she held his gaze. Her heart twisted in her chest, her panic held in bay by her pain as she thought of what she was now leaving behind. Distantly, she tried to tell herself that it was for the best – that her sacrifice was the same as the men who fought upon the front line. The she was knight and soldier with her brave words and her hammering pulse.

She kept her head up as she turned away from what was familiar to her. She ignored her father's hopeless eyes and Gaston's desperate stare as she turned her back on them. She did hope for their happiness then - she hoped that her father would not mourn her as he did her mother. Hoped that Gaston would find some gentle lady worthy of his simple affection and the offer of his hand. She hoped, and with that hope, she walked hand in hand with the man her people called the Dark One only when speaking in the sunlight and brightly lit places. Child-thief and gold-spinner, and -

_Savior_, she reminded herself firmly. With her sacrifice, and not one more soul would die in the wars that desecrated the ends of their lands.

"Oh, by the way!" his voice called out behind them. "Congratulations on your little war."  
><strong><br>**She heard the shuffle of boots on the tiles, the slip of hands anxious upon their sword hilts. But no one dared to stop her. No one came forth.

And Belle closed her eyes and let him lead her away.

In her naivety, she had assumed that they would simply walk away – forgetting already that he had appeared as a whisper in the war chambers without strolling through either doors or window. When one walked the ways between the shadows, then one didn't need to rely on such paltry methods of transportation. Still, she felt her indignation over his lack of warning burn next to her scream when smoke gathered around them like a black thing, stinging her eyes and filling her nose with a bitter scent.

Around her, the castle walls and the banners bearing her father's crest disappeared. Time and space seemed to fold in on themselves – she saw shadows and swirling lights, like the celestial displays that would some time lighten the northern horizon. There was laughter in her ears as she was pulled through the ways that overlapped the world. There were hands that held tight and steady around her waist as she dug her fingers into the arm that caged her. And they fell.

The ride ended as swiftly as it had begun – the shadows faded and the bright lights swept themselves away until it was as if they had never been. When the magic released them, they were far from anywhere Belle recognized. It was still night around them, with the twilight staining the horizon just beyond. They could not have gone too far, then, she reasoned. They were maybe only on the other side of the Enchanted Forest, then. Thick shadows bloomed to their left and right, showing a densely wooded thicket. The trees were bare, but thick browning leaves still coated the ground, speaking of winter's closeness. There were dead wildflower bushes close to the ground – they were in the mountains then, Belle recognized the shape of the dead blooms. The mountains in the north.

And right beyond them was a misty lake – in the distance, she could see snow covered peaks – glowing even in the night. And on the lake, she knew there to be an isle . . . An isle people only mentioned in whispers, and then only ever in the light of day . . .

"Île de la Une Sombre," Belle found the name pouring off of her tongue anyway, even with the shadows around her, dark and consuming.

He didn't speak to her statement, he just tilted his head and beckoned her forth. There was a ghost of a smile on his lips, but it did not flare into life.

While she stood on the bank, watching where the shoreline rippled unseen under the mist, Rumpelstiltskin clicked his fingers, and a spell that had been hiding a row boat in the reeds disappeared. He pushed the boat into the water while she watched him, her lower lip drawn between her teeth. The night air was cold, and she had already woven her arms around her stomach, trying to conserve her body heat.

Her breath frosted on the mist. And he bowed, beckoning her forward, "Milady," the title rolled mockingly from his mouth.

She narrowed her eyes, but took her spot at the back of the boat. He watched her, his eyes glowing in the non-light, and then pushed the boat into the shallow water. His boots were wet when he hopped in and started to row, but he didn't seem to notice or care.

They cut through the mist like ghosts, and Belle wrapped her arms tighter around herself. The air was even colder upon the water, and beneath the inky surface, there were the sounds of mournful things, and slashes of sharp fins in the waters beyond. In a counterpoint, her captor was silent as he rowed, observing her unease with too wide eyes.

"Are you going to drown me?" she finally asked carefully, not caring for the silence.

"And waste my prize?" he chortled in reply. "There are easier ways to dispose of you without getting wet." He made a face.

And she believed him. She let the silence fall again, and this time she was content to leave it lie.

They reached a dock after what seemed like an eternity had passed – a dock whose end she could not see thanks to the mist swirling about the water. When she looked up she could see shapes in the night sky – a towering and looming structure further up from the shore. A castle, with towers and walls and stones larger than she was. She spied further, but could make out no detail in the mists. No shape or structure.

And still, as she started to comprehend the size of her new home (prison, for she was not going to forget her right words) Belle felt a tense feeling dig its claws into her chest. After all, she had hardly held a maid's rag in her hands throughout her entire life, let alone managed an entire estate . . . She felt trepidation bloom in her chest, making it hard to breathe. Loss and fear and the effort of keeping her chin up high – it made her stomach turn. Still, she blamed it on the churning of the boat on the water.

When he tied the boat off, she finally summoned up her courage to speak again. "Why didn't you just," she waved her hand, not sure what to call disappearing from one place and reappearing in another, " . . . you know," she summarized stupidly, "directly over here?"

His smile was sharp, his crooked teeth flashing. "There are too many beings who hold that ability, and enchanted castles always do have their . . . quirks. It is safer to apparate," she filed the term away for later use, "to the bank, and then row the rest of the way. There's a bridge, as well, but such things are better not to be approached at night. At least, not when I have company." She could not tell if his words were teasing, or not, but she remembered the mournful howls on the waters, the things splashing right beyond them, and truly, she did not want to know.

"Oh," was all that she said. He did not give her a hand out of the boat, and so she collected her skirts in her hands, and did her best to step onto the dock without making a fool out of herself.

The wood of the dock was slick from the mists and fog, and still she managed to keep her feet under her. There was a path leading into a back entrance to the castle – through the outermost wall, hidden and concealed to the point where she was almost certain that it was a secret way they used. As soon as the castle walls swallowed her, she could smell magic on the air – storms and pines and the cold clean scent of winter. And something spicy – like burning leaves. She inhaled, and felt her lungs expand.

Enchanted? He had said to her. She believed him as they slipped through the halls like ghosts. There was not a torch lit, not even one to break up the night around them. She could only see shades of grey and black – the implication of a door, a wall, a window; various objects which would be serene and still with the morning light, but now were all monsters waiting with jaws wide open.

She held her questions, and stuck to his shadow, keeping close lest he lost her in the maze of rooms and corridors.

It was only when they were descending down into a tower – she assumed it was a tower, thanks to the circular spin of the stairs, going down and down and _down_– when she felt her questions spring from her tongue. "Where are you taking me?"

A moment. A snort of laughter. "Let's just call it your room."

Down and down and _down _they went. The stone felt rough underneath her shoes, snaring on her dainty slippers, which had been made for dancing and a court's marble hall. She could smell straw on the air around her. Straw and the stale sour scent of fear.

A dungeon? Her mind looked on in horror when she finally understood where she was. She could make out the splintering wood of doors. The bars which barred them, black and worn. Upon seeing the chains on the wall, dark stories swirled in her head, ones which she fiercely reminded herself were told simply to scare children with. But now here she was in the dragon's own lair, and -

"You said that you were taking me to my room?" even with her fear, she could still find it within herself to be outraged at her accommodations. Incensed, even.

His sneer was unkind on his face when he pushed her into one of the cells; his amusement sick and twisting. "Well, it sounded a lot nicer than _dungeon_, now didn't it?"

Her shriek of disbelief was caught in her throat as she caught her feet from the shove. She turned – to run, to hit him with her small fists, she knew not – but the door slammed closed before she could find out. She heard it lock.

"You can't just leave me in here!" she shouted, realizing the ridiculousness of her words. She wanted to stomp her feet on the ground like a child. She wanted to rip his laughing voice from his throat and tear it apart with her bare hands.

. . . she wanted to cry, it would seem. As his laughter died back up the tower stairs, she could feel her cheeks turn hot and wet. Her eyes thickened with water, finally overwhelmed. She stood in the middle of her cell (_room_, her mind stubbornly called it. As if by giving it a right name she could change its very shape), her fists balled and her shoulders shaking. She couldn't yet bring herself to approach the straw bed in the corner, fearful of the grime and the crawling things that were surely to be found there. She didn't bother testing the lock – she knew it would hold, no matter what she tried.

Instead she lowered herself to the ground. She pressed her back against the thick wooden door, and hugged her arms about her folded knees. The folds of her dress ballooned around her, but she didn't bother smoothing them out – it seemed so silly in that moment, her fine dress and her painted lips. She missed her father in that moment as despair settled around her. She missed his smiles, and her mother's fae tales retold through his mouth in order to sooth the night away.

But her word was her word. And so, with her memories and her regrets, she turned in on herself, and waited for the morning to come.

* * *

><p><strong><strong>End Notes<strong>**

**Le Fou: **Because if Gaston is a pretty boy dandy in OUAT's rendition, then obviously the kick butt captain of the guard had to be named Le Fou. (Gaston's bumbling side kick in the Disney version was named the same, for those who don't remember.)  
><strong><strong><br>D'Arque******: **Whose name was also taken from the Disney version – the keeper of the insane asylum.  
><strong><strong><br>Repeating Scenes From the Show******: **Had to happen here. This fic is looking to be around thirty chapters, so know that it won't be done unless I have to. That said, the majority of the dialogue in the second part was taken directly from the show. All credit goes where credit is due. ;)

****Avanlee's Royalty******: **The names Aurore and Beaujour came from another one of Beaumont's fairy tale's, called _Aurore and Aimée._

**Î****le de la Une Sombre: **Translates to _Island of the Dark One_, in French. My knowledge of the French language is very simple, so if anyone has a better translation for me, I would more than welcome that!**  
><strong>


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